


Lavender House - Initiation

by lferion



Series: Lavender House [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Lord John Grey - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 18th Century, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Crossover, Historical, M/M, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Experience never stops being a teacher; Teachers never stop learning from experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lavender House - Initiation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishafel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/gifts).



> This is a crossover of Highlander and the _Lord John Grey_ &amp; _Outlander_ books by Diana Gabaldon. This story takes place in late 1754, after the events of the first two Outlander books and before the Lord John books properly start. Chapter 9 and 10 of Lord John and and the Private Matter introduce the reader to the gentleman's club cum molly-house known as Lavender House and give hints as to some of Lord John's history. I took those hints, added Methos, and ran with them.
> 
> Lord John is young, bright, pretty, socially prominent and gay in a time when having 'unnatural relations' was punishable by a public and shameful death for all parties involved. Hopefully, no other knowledge of him is necessary to appreciate the tale told here.
> 
> This came out rather longer than I thought it would be and shorter than it ought to be. There are in fact two more parts that I did not get finished in time, that will be posted when I do finish them, hopefully before the end of the year.
> 
> Thanks go to Auberus for cheerleading, beta-duties and encouragement without which this story would not have been written. Thanks also go to amand_r for patience above and beyond the call, as well as running this fest in a delightful &amp; organized manner for a third year.
> 
> Warnings: Mention of past unpleasantnesses, including implied incest &amp; abuse of peripheral characters.

\-- From the diary of George Everett

> September the Second, 1754. Took J to Lavender House again today. An education for him that place is proving. There was a young man applying for membership, and I encouraged the Committee to hold the 'personal interviews' in the Library. Much sport was had, and the gentleman - and he is a gentleman, though I am not acquainted with his family: Welsh connections I believe - is indeed true molly, with a sweet arse to go with a clever mouth, and a privy member as noble as his blade of a nose might indicate. Utterly without shame, too, which could be said to have added to the sport for some. For myself, I prefer a little more delicacy of spirit. The whole committee enjoyed him, and he certainly enjoyed himself, to judge by the condition of the ottoman. It is not every man, no matter how molly, as comes from taking it up the backside. Remarkable recovery time, too. Of course his application was accepted. J did not actively participate, not being a member himself, but certainly the sight was invigorating. He was quite the tiger later that evening, - morning I should say, the affair with young Ganymede went on all night - and it was a pleasure of another order all together when I had him. There may be more to him than a snug fuck and a pretty face. One of these days I may even let him have me. I'd like to fix that hold on him. I may need it. And it would be something to hold over Melton as well. Must think on it.

 

Lavender House was elegant, well-built and handsomely appointed in its public rooms, clean and comfortable if somewhat spare of ornament in the private. From the outside, there was no indication that the establishment was anything other than a gracious residence become private club. There was certainly no evidence of the fact that it was - and had been for many years - a molly-house that catered to the gentry and nobility. Inside was quite another matter. Methos found the unselfconscious and occasionally exuberant masculinity of it refreshing after the oppressive fussiness of Mrs Hargraves' house. (A good enough woman in her way, but she would go on about his 'sad loss' and dwell endlessly on how happy Mary Elizabeth had been to be expecting his child so early in their marriage. In her mind the loss of the child was a far greater grief than that of the mother, and Methos could not agree.) Lavender House had no furbelows and no reminders. Complete reinvention. Captain Richard Adams had not returned from India; James Pierce-Smyth had never been there. And Mrs Hargraves would never know that her own dearest Christopher had been the father of her daughter's child. After learning that, Methos had been of a mind to seek the company of persons who had known none of them.

This was his third formal visit to the house, and the one where decision would be made as to his application for membership. Methos had no real doubt of his acceptance, and no illusions about the nature of the 'personal interviews.' Indeed, James was rather looking forward to it, if a little apprehensive of the leer in the eye and gloat in the voice of the committee head. Everett would be a man for whom to watch out: one-and-twenty summers were more than enough to see that; it did not take millenia to read the greed, lust and vicious self-centredness in that cold face. Though it appeared the young man who accompanied him (hardly past his majority it seemed, pale and fine-boned and rather small, dressed always with propriety and taste in suits from the hands of an excellent snyder,) had not yet perceived it, despite his all his poise, grace and fair-haired elegance.

Personal interviews. Methos brought his thought back to the present. Yes, he _was_ rather looking forward to the prospect of uncomplicated, out and out physicality without strings or consequences other than the possible pleasant ache of a well-exercised arse. The only immortal in this quarter of town was Reverend Samuels, serving at St Wilfred's-on-Thames in the thankless job of ministering to the orphaned children of the slums, and he was no danger in any case. It had been centuries since Methos had served as an _hetairekos_ by choice rather than occasional whore by necessity, but some things one never lost. And somehow, the fact that society currently looked on men having relations with men with horror and distaste (while blithely ignoring other actual abuses) made the prospect the more appealing. Sometimes being very old indeed made for interesting irony. Methos knew himself far too well to be disturbed by such a mild start. He had been pleased to take advantage of the really rather excellent bathing and privy facilities the house afforded (Methos suspected that there was a Roman tepidaruim in the cellar, had the vaguest recall of an official complex in the area when it had been Londinium,and that some remnants of that so far unmatched plumbing were still in use. There were days - years! - he really _missed_ Roman engineering) and made liberal use of both clyster and soap. There was even a careful selection of oils available. Richard Caswell knew his business and his clientele well. James had chosen not quite at random, ending up with something pleasantly and faintly woodsy, with a hint of spice. Even now the hint of it lingered warm in his nose, the knowledge of it heating his fingertips, his belly and loins and nether regions. He breathed deeply, banking arousal and eagerness. The committee would not understand him coming ready for what was supposed to be a surprise. James was but one-and-twenty, comparatively sheltered, schooled at home, what would he know of fraternal initiation?

The door to the small salon opened and the footman nodded to him "The Committee will see you now, sir. If you will follow me? They are meeting in the Library."

The library, was it? So the 'personal interviews' were to be public, then. Very likely Everett intended for his young man to be witness to the proceedings, as well as see whether James was subject to reluctance or shame to be seen to submit to the pricks of other men. Instantly, Methos discovered that James had no such qualms, indeed, he was going to enjoy being watched. He was glad of the skirts of his waistcoat; the good cloth of his well-cut breeches was noticeably tight across the front. He used the brief walk from small salon and across the main entry-hall to the library to once again subdue his eager parts. It really had been far too long, if mere anticipation could have such galvanic effect.

James's sponsor was waiting at the library doors. Mr. Peter Athanasius Stafford (Athy to his friends) was an amiable man of modest understanding and generous means, kind to both horses and those less fortunate than himself, with a known penchant for spare, strong-featured companions. (His wife, far sharper of wit than himself, and appreciative of the freedom he gave her, could have stepped from a Roman coin. Their children, fortunately, seemed to have inherited their father's more conventional looks.) He was smiling as he took James's hands in his own and leaned close to whisper only a little loudly in James's ear "Lookin' particularly fine tonight, m'dear." His lips were soft in almost-accidental caress, and Methos shivered faintly, sensitized with the long wait and anticipation. A look of sympathy warmed Peter's eyes, and he gave a quick squeeze to James's hands. "You'll do very well, m'lad. Very well indeed, I'm sure. Nothing untoward, even though the Second Drawing Room is more the usual place for this. And not the entire committee."

All the stops indeed. Well. James returned Peter's grip with a comforting pressure of his own and smiled cheerfully in turn. "I'm honored that they feel I merit the attention of the full roster, and not simply a quorum. Thank you. Lead on, MacDuff."

"Shakespeare, eh? Seems appropriate. The cook my Sophy engaged last month does a nice plum duff. You'll like it, I'm sure. Come to dinner tomorrow, celebrate. Can't imagine the committee won't approve, though with the lot of them here, likely to be too late tonight to do more than raise a glass."

With that, the footman opened the doors wide and announced with some ceremony - Methos suspected a frustrated desire for the stage lurked in the man's shapely breast - "Gentleman, the Sponsor and his candidate for membership, as your honors requested."

The whole committee was indeed present, as well as several other members. Everett's young man appeared to be the only guest or non-initiate. The furniture had been somewhat re-arranged, with the usual grouping of comfortable chairs pushed back and the large upholstered ottoman moved to the center of the carpet before the fireplace. Men lounged on the various sofas and every chair was occupied. Everett stood with his elbow on the mantleshelf, lust and a certain amused anticipation glittering in his eyes. James straightened his shoulders, a pleasant but neutral expression on his own face. A smile would be a challenge. The night would be challenging enough without actual provocation. Not everyone in this room necessarily meant him well, though there was no hint of actual ill-wishing, and he would shortly be in a position of some vulnerability. For a very brief moment he missed the weight of his sword, left of necessity with cloak and hat and gloves with the footman. No-one else was so armed, though many of the men present sported weapons of another sort, proud shapes distending their breeches. The ottoman looked as though it had been designed for the purpose of bending men over it. Once again his prick jumped in its linen confinement and he was aware of the oil slick between his nether-cheeks. He hoped he'd used enough.

Peter took his role as sponsor seriously, and had learned his part with admirable thoroughness. He drew himself up to his full height (some three inches or so less than James's own) and shook out the lace at his wrists, his hands displayed to advantage. "Members of the Committee, gentleman-members, I, Peter Stafford, member in good standing and initiate sworn, do present Eromenos Ganymede for your examination and consideration. I certify him free of infirmity or blemish, and possessed of those attributes that qualify him for membership in this our brotherhood."

A slender man in ice-green satin moved a languid hand and spoke with a soft and drawling voice, though the spread of his thighs and the faint flush of color in his cheeks said he was anything but disinterested. "Strip, if you please. Let us see these attributes." The Honorable Edward Chenowyth he was, heir to a title in Cornwall, and a man with a reputation of having a way with the ladies. It would seem he had a taste for the lads as well, Methos thought. It was not an uncommon combination. Peter had told James that he would be required to disrobe, and not to mind it, they all had in their own time. Peter was there, ready to help him out of his coat and waist-coat, hands steady as a valet and just as skilled. He'd mentioned once, almost shyly, and braced for ridicule, that he liked the whole process of dressing and undressing, the layers of cloth and fastenings peeled away to reveal waiting, eager flesh, applied again to cover but never quite disguise or hide the essential, beautiful and carnal nakedness of man. It had been a surprisingly perceptive and self-aware comment.

Remembering that conversation, Methos made something of a show of taking off the rest of his clothes, loosening his neckcloth before stepping out of his shoes, easing off his breeches and letting the long tails of his shirt simultaneously hide and hint at the curve of buttock and the crease where hip met thigh. Exhibition in James was artless, not studied, but no less of a pleasure for all concerned. Methos felt Peter's breath grow short and his hands tremble as he took each garment and laid it neatly aside on the waiting table. As Sponsor, Peter would not be conducting an interview, but Methos could give him this.

At last he stood in nothing but his fine linen shirt, and he took hold of the hem and drew it smoothly over his head , thence to stand displayed before the company. And it was displayed, a stance perfected in palaces and slave-pens, parade-grounds and temples, the studios of artists and the bedrooms of lovers. Shoulders back, arms falling in a graceful curve that let light fall on bicep and forearm, head high and straight and turned just so, letting the line of neck and throat lead the eye down to the breast with small nipples darkened and peaked against pale skin, down again to the arch of ribs and vulnerable belly; buttocks firm but not clenched, hips at that subtle angle that displayed his 'attributes' - heavy, half-hard, flushed with arousal more than filling the promise of his long hands and high-arched feet, his outrageous nose - to best advantage. Thighs opened, spread just so, knees and feet and ankles in the timeless, effortless stance of the dancer, the fighter, the orator, the runner, the hunter waiting for the deer to spring, the priest waiting for the god to manifest in him. His heart beat high and steady in his chest. In the Moment, perfectly and gloriously alive. These men could not help but look and see and feel. Methos heard a little, longing, involuntary sigh from somewhere in the room, and came back to himself, to James Pierce-Smyth, whereupon he let the lines fall out of true, become the limbs and angles of a too-tall, untried, still discovering himself youth, more potential than actual, more clay than metal, someone to be shaped, not a shaper of others. Above all, not a threat. There was another sigh, now more lust than longing, and a murmur of salacious appreciation, then someone remarked "Strips to advantage indeed. And not a drop of shame at being mother-naked. I like that in a lad. He'll do." Someone else shushed the speaker amidst chuckles as ice-green suit - Chenowyth - took up the script of the ritual again. He was apparently the First Speaker, which meant Everett was like to be the last, with final word. Likely last in the order of 'personal interviews' as well.

Chenowyth glanced around at the other dozen members of the committee. Several of them were adjusting themselves. His lips quirked in a small smile, and he let his own thighs fall open a little wider in the chair, uncaring of witnesses to his obvious arousal. Everett gave him a nod and Chenowyth spoke. "The candidate is acceptable in appearance, but the witness of our eyes. Having passed the first examination, it remains to be seen if he is acceptable in his parts, by the evidence of the flesh. Candidate, in your desire for admission to our fellowship, you stand naked before us, your ... eagerness ... apparent." There was another chuckle, quickly stifled. Methos felt again the heavy pulse in his loins. Eromenos Ganymede, do you consent to the examination of experience, flesh to flesh, body to body, by these authorities of our brotherhood here seated, before these witnesses of our fellowship here gathered? Know you that we will penetrate the secret places of your person, planting our seed in your very depths, marking and making you a brother of this house and a fellow of our flesh in truth, and thus privy to the delight, the sorrow, and the secret of this house; and do you further swear to hold that secret sacred, never to be disclosed without these walls and this company, excepting only those who may sustain this trial and take this oath after you? Will you swear this oath in your own name, silent or aloud, freely and by your own potency and power, as a man entire, desirous of men? Place your hand on your manhood and voice this oath and your consent, before these present witnesses."

The words were more explicit and somewhat blunter than he had expected, hearkening back to truly ancient rituals of fertility and fitness to lead, of life and seed, blood and death. Judging by the blankness of the expressions on most of the faces, the words had little meaning for their current auditors, their potency and force lost to the ages. Everett's boy was looking thoughtful, though Everett himself was clearly bored by this part of the proceedings. Chenowyth himself seemed to have an appreciation for the theatre of it, and possibly more. Methos took a steady breath and spoke, his words making echoes no-one else could hear. "I so consent and swear, in my own person, by my own potency, power and desire, freely and in my own Name." It was not James that swore, nor was James the name he held in mind as with breath and hand and will Methos gave his word in truth.

There was a moment of pregnant silence, and then Peter shook himself a little and declared "Heard and witnessed." The rest of assembly followed suit, Everett's young man among the first, Everett himself a beat behind and last. Had he doubted? Hoped for hesitation at the commitment?

Immediately the air in the room lightened, returning to the atmosphere of cheerful lust and suggestive laughter, men adjusting themselves openly, boasting among themselves of their state of arousal, previous encounters, anticipation of their own 'interview.' The fire was built up, and with an almost abashed gentleness Peter guided James to the ottoman, bent him over the ornately upholstered cushion and nudged his legs wide before leaving him with a fleeting, tentative brush of fingers to his hair and the nape of his neck.

James shivered, the fire warm on the backs of his legs, the nap of the upholstery strange against the tender, sensitized skin of his privates. If they followed the form so far set, Chenowyth would be first to have him, then the others in whatever constituted the order of their ranks, with Everett bringing up the rear. The almost-familiarity of the ritual teased at a distant corner of Methos' mind, and he wondered absently at the persistence of the continuing need and predilection for ritual in the human mind, especially when it came to public dealings with things considered private. And what was more private than sex? Except, of course, when it wasn't private at all.

Chenowyth had put off his coat and loosened the fall of his beautiful ice-green breeches, pulling aside the tails of his shirt and taking advantage of the conveniently place dish of oil to stroke himself to hardness. Methos felt himself hardening again at the sight, the scent of the oil mingling with the scent of the man. Cool fingers probed between his buttocks, spreading him wide and making James shiver with the easy competence of his intimate, insistent touch. Then Chenowyth was entering him with a swift, hard stroke, stretching him wide and filling him full, and Methos gave himself over to sensation. Languid the lord in the ice-green suit might be in demeanor and casual discourse, but he knew what to do with his prick, and how to make the man receiving it enjoy it. Methos found himself shuddering and gasping in short order, pleasure jolting through him with each inexorable thrust. He felt his balls tightening in unstoppable, exquisite progression, Chenowyth's soft voice murmuring filthy encouragement in his ear, and when his orgasm came it was a relief to cry out and let go, spilling himself onto the uncaring upholstery, Chenowyth's hard prick and hot thighs urging him on. Chenowyth came himself shortly after, with a chuckle and a caught breath. Before he pulled out, he reached around to drag long fingers through the wetness on Methos' belly and put the tips to Methos' lips before licking at them himself, and waited through the buck and shudder of their bodies in the aftermath, both of them tasting his release. Methos hoped the rest of them were not quite so inventive or skilled, or he would have little left to withstand Everett, who would likely need withstanding by the end.

The second man, by contrast, was little more than a boy, and hardly seemed to know what to do with an arse when he was the one standing erect behind it. His approach was clumsy and his entrance awkward, but his hands were warm and gentle. Once he was actually in, he began to get the idea, and Methos set himself to make sure the lad enjoyed himself, making use of techniques he hadn't needed - or even thought of - in decades if not centuries. The boy soon came with a swift and startled whimper and retired in some confusion, to the jests and congratulations of his fellows. Methos gathered that indeed, he had been a first for Burrows Minor.

The third man fucked him with unremarkable, brisk efficiency, pushing in, pumping, climaxing and departing with no ceremony and very little sound, and Methos let him go about his business unimpeded by much if any input from the recipient of his attentions.

The fourth man used his mouth, his grip on Methos' hair holding his head still as he thrust with quick, short, almost brutal strokes that were unexpectedly arousing in their abrupt strength. He came quickly and messily, and Methos had the pleasure of seeing the man shudder in turn as James licked his lips slowly and discoveringly, then swallowing with a smile. This seemed to give the next man (a dandified creature in a rose suit picked out in cream and gold who affected rose-colored hair-powder and rosewater scent,) ideas, and he spent some time exploring, turning James over on his back on the ottoman with knees spread wide, putting his hot, dry hands everywhere, teasing and touching and finding apparent pleasure in unusual places. By the time he was finished (a final, erratic rub of prick to prick and an abrupt small spurt accompanied by an unexpected bite that Methos could only hope had gone unnoticed) Methos was again fully and achingly aroused.

The next two were as unimaginative as the third, except that they seemed to enjoy frustrating James' arousal, their ministrations doing nothing to let him come, but teasing him erect again when he showed signs of flagging. They had chosen to have him together, one after the other, and several of the onlookers had gotten into the game of keeping him on the brink, offering suggestions and keeping up a running commentary. They finally tired of the sport and spilled themselves in quick succession, one in his mouth and the other between his thighs.

With the advent of the eighth man, Everett had pulled his companion near to the proceedings, close enough that James could smell a hint of his understated perfume under the wash of male musk and spent seed. Methos knew himself to be a picture of debauchery, limbs sprawled wide on the ottoman, buttocks, belly and thighs wet with oil and sweat and the seed of several men, prick stiff and purple with need as his hips jerked in time to the eighth man's vigorous thrusts. He was awash in sensation, overstimulated in some ways, under in others, held long on the brink.

Color burned on the young man's cheeks, but his expression was admirably controlled. The bulge in the superfine of his breeches was not so restrained. Methos noticed the possessive curl of Everett's hand on his shoulder, and the lad's slight, unconscious shift away from - not into - Everett's touch. Interesting. He reached for the thought as a distraction from the man laboring away at his arse as if fucking were a job of work for which he had more enthusiasm than aptitude. His pants and grunts and the damp clench of his hands on Methos' hips made it apparent that he was enjoying himself, however lacking in technique he might be. Finally, Methos gave him an encouraging squeeze with his inner muscles to aide him on his way, and he came with a snort and a shout. When he withdrew it was with a surprisingly sweet brush of lips to James' shoulder-blade, and a little pat to his sweat-slick buttock. The unexpected kindness finally pushed him over the edge and his second climax of the night took him by the nape and the knees and shook him like a terrier with a rat, leaving him limp and spent. Everett's eyes on him were avid, the young man's dark with both arousal and sympathy.

Nine was considerate, making liberal use of the oil during and the basin and towel both before and after a slow and steady fuck that asked nothing of him. Ten averred that he had been quite satisfied to watch, as demonstrated by the dampness of his shirt-tails. Eleven and twelve were a blur of sensory overload.

Last was George Everett. The night was well advanced, and many of the onlookers had departed, even several of the committee. Chenowyth remained, and Everett's _eromenos_ (who Methos had finally realized went by Andromachus, the male form of Hector of Troy's wife's name. There was a story there, as well as a grief that lay heavy, oppressive and unspoken; the lad was older than Methos had originally thought, mid-twenties, of an age with James), and several others. Peter had stood staunch, a solid, thoughtful presence, unobtrusively ready with water and towels, oil and wine, and at one point aiding the eldest of the committee in completing what proven to be an unexpectedly difficult dismount with tact and grace.

Predictably, Everett was rough, rougher and harder than any of the others. Rough like a far more ancient 'brother' had been, and calculatedly clever with it, though without the gleeful degree of cruelty (which Methos could have dealt with, even then) and without the inspired and violent caprice that had been what finally sundered their relationship (which Methos would have utterly failed to deal with in a sane and civilized manner, so that was just as well.) Ultimately, though, George was a small-minded and unimaginative man with a surprisingly limited sexual (one could hardly call it erotic) repertoire. He was skilled and brutal enough with what he did know to spark eager fire in nerves wound to the point of flinching at a breath with long stimulation, bring twice-spent flesh to new and sharp arousal. Methos had not indulged in such depth of responsiveness in many lifetimes, and the sudden pain-pleasure of it drew a shudder and a cry from him.

Everett laughed.

It was the flash of consternation in Andromachus' eyes, the moue of distaste quickly smoothed to neutrality on Chenowyth's lips that decided him. There was, after all, nothing George Everett could do under these circumstances that could or would hurt him if he chose not to let it. It was merely strong sensation, vigorously applied by a man who ultimately did not matter. A man who was nothing but a bully, and the best way to deal with that sort was to beat them at their own game by changing the rules and laughing at the ultimate absurdity of it all. He would choose to take whatever the man did and thoroughly enjoy it. Everett was unlikely to understand the jest; the sly edge to his satisfied smile told Methos that he interpreted James' soundless, gasps as sobs, not laughter. His loss.

(James might not - could not - be the person he would have been before he consented to this night. But Methos was nothing if not flexible. An experience like this shaped one, and initiations were supposed to be about beginnings. So James was thoroughly, exuberantly, unabashedly molly. It would be an amusing challenge in this day and age.) Methos shuddered and writhed on the ottoman, arched urgently into hot hands, wet mouth, busy teeth, met and matched and drove the rhythm of the thrusts , angled his hips and spine until the stretch and burn were just right, the fat prick hitting the perfect spot. Everett wanted to make this something small and demeaning, something to be endured with shame, remembered with guilt. Methos was having none of that. Whatever it was that Everett wanted from James, what he was going to get was loud, obvious and unfeigned enjoyment. James owned not a particle of shame.

Methos was on the brink, balls tight, his entire body wound and ready for the last push to the summit. The others' broken gasps and jerking hips said he was nearly there as well, though he seemed to be fighting it. Methos twisted and squeezed, giving no quarter, and the man above him pounded in wildly, undone. His climax pulled a cry from him, and a last few uncontrolled thrusts that brought Methos to his own completion. He came long and hard and laughing at the sheer joy of overwhelming sensation, ridiculous and amazing, a wonder of life, still coming up with surprises. He hardly noticed when the man warm and heavy on his back softened and slipped from between his nether-cheeks, or when he pushed himself upright, leaving Methos' back to cool with drying sweat, his thighs to warm from the heat of the fire. It was all sensation, without weight, without meaning.

For a long moment, Methos lay sprawled on the ottoman, enjoying the feeling of having been thoroughly and gloriously fucked. It really had been too long. The acute ecstasy had ebbed, leaving a glow of good feeling that made him look on even George Everett with cheerful equanimity James was inclined to be grateful. He turned and stretched and smiled up at the man. Everett was putting his clothes in order with something less than his usual grace. "Thank you." He moved his hips a little, savoring the fleeting, pleasant ache of a well-exercised arse. "Capital conclusion to a splendid evening." There was no artifice in the statement; Methos was perfectly sincere, centered in himself, awake and alive and at that moment in charity with all the world and everything and person in it.

Having little practice at it, Everett was less successful at hiding his bafflement at James' thanks and cheerfully shameless state than he had been at concealing his intent to humiliate. Andromachus was looking both thoughtful and flushed, as if he hadn't before realized that one could actively enjoy being had by another that way. Methos hoped the young man had learned something of his _erastes_ as well. Though Everett hardly merited the respect that term implied. Chenowyth, rising from his chair, bestowed a twinkling and appreciative smile on James before turning to Everett and the remaining members of the committee.

Methos stretched again and began pulling himself together as Peter approached with the basin and towel again. The water was warm and his touch gentle, another tactile pleasure, to be clean, washed by careful and affectionate hands. Peter would have made an excellent valet. As it was he was enjoying himself.

He was just settling the banyan that Peter had produced seemingly from thin air about his shoulders when Chenowyth and the man Methos would forever think of as Mr Rose (even after being formally introduced several weeks later - Eustace Gotobed was a name that hardly fit what Methos knew of the man) returned from their brief conference to close the proceedings. Everett had collected a not-precisely reluctant Andromachus and departed as the other men approached with smiles.

"Eromenos Ganymede, Sponsor Stafford, I am very pleased to say that your application to membership is unanimously approved by this committee, and am personally delighted to welcome Ganymede to the Brotherhood of Lavender House." With that, Chenowyth drew James into a surprisingly tender embrace, kissing him on both cheeks. His lips were warm and soft, and recalled his earlier skill, sending a slow shiver of lazy pleasure through Methos' sated flesh. Chenowyth did not fail to notice the reaction, and in a lower and more personal tone he assured James that should there be any question of the house-fee, he himself would be pleased to take care of the matter. "Indeed, I would welcome the pleasure of your company another day." There were a myriad of levels to that statement, and it seemed that Chenowyth was sincere on all of them, his expression and touch inviting and intimate, free of calculation or even expectation.

James found himself blushing for the first and only time that night, and assured him that the situation in that regard was well in hand. "But thank you, very much, sir, for the consideration. Indeed I would be pleased to further your acquaintance, here or elsewhere, conventionally or less so." Methos felt the smile on his face widen. James would have no lack of patrons and protectors, should he need them. And no lack of enjoyable companionship, in bed and out of it.

Then they were all making their goodbyes, those with rooms in the house retiring to them, the others calling for their hats and cloaks. Before departing, Mr Rose leaned close, and gave James to understand that should he desire, a room of his own in the house could be had for the asking, the terms very reasonable. He had reason to believe that the master of the house would be more than amenable to the prospect. He would broach the subject with Caswell himself, should James desire. Methos had not been thinking of removing from the anonymous rooming house where James presently resided, but the idea had a strong appeal. And if James was to be hetairekos to select company, well, living here would only make that easier. It was a respectable address, certainly. And had other, more obscure advantages. Methos smiled and thanked him, agreeing. Mr Rose left him with a promise to put the arrangements in train straight away. In the morning, first thing.

When all the rest had left, and the library fire was burning low, Peter - Athy - brought over a pair of glasses generously filled with the rather excellent port the house afforded. He handed one to James where he had eased himself down to half-lie in the chair that had been Chenowyth's. Immortal healing had left the various marks and aches of use no more than memory, but Peter certainly didn't need to know that. And immortal healing did nothing to reduce the lassitude and relaxation of complete sexual satiation. Methos was more than happy not to be required to move for the moment. Peter seemed to be enjoying having the opportunity to tend to James in such small ways. They sat for a bit in companionable silence, watching the fire mutter to itself, coals gleaming red and winking in the ash.

Presently, Athy reached out an almost tentative hand, putting light fingers on James' wrist where it lay relaxed upon the broad arm of the chair. "Come home with me tonight. Sophy won't mind. Always have a guestroom ready. Sleep where you like." He swallowed, raising his eyes almost shyly. "wouldn't want you to have to be alone. Didn't want it m'self, when it was me, after. An' a roomin' house is hardly restful, nor much in the way of private. Stay for dinner. Plum duff."

Methos nodded slowly, turning his wrist to take Athy's hand. He discovered that James didn't want to sleep alone, didn't want to fold himself in to the inconvenient and cold bed in the Mrs Mendenhall's crowded lodging-house. And he knew that Sophronia Helene Stafford would indeed not mind. A woman of parts, that one.

It turned out the banyan was a gift, and Peter an easy bedfellow, a warm presence that indeed offered the simple comfort of companionship with one who understood what it meant not to be alone. James slept deep in Peter's undemanding arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Molly - term used for men who had sex with men. A molly-house was an establishment that catered to them,
> 
> Clyster - an anal hygiene device used in the 17th &amp; 18th centuries, and possibly later.
> 
> Erastes - the older man and active partner in a sexual relationship between males in Ancient Greece.
> 
> Eromenos - the younger, passive or receptive partner.
> 
> Hetairekos - high-class and in-demand male companion/prostitute in Ancient Greece. The position was somewhat similar to that of a geisha in Japan.
> 
> Banyan - a loose robe worn by men of the period in casual circumstances, usually over shirt and breeches, sometimes as a night-robe over nightshirt or nothing at all.


End file.
